


Girlfriend

by pragmatist



Series: Words [1]
Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pragmatist/pseuds/pragmatist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William loves the sound, the taste, the feel of the word when he proclaims it.  Girlfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Girlfriend

**Author's Note:**

> Just a widdle drabble. Been working on two longer pieces that I plan to post by/during this coming weekend, but this just popped in my head while I was having a midnight snack, so I thought I’d share.

William loves the sound, the taste, the feel of the word when he proclaims it.  _Girlfriend._  

Of course, the reality of it is the best thing – Lizzie Bennet as his girlfriend – but he enjoys being able to say the word itself, knowing that the word has a place in his life.

In William’s past, there have been ( _some, not many_ ) dates.  There have been ( _even fewer_ ) lovers.  But Lizzie is truly the first woman to whom he can apply the term _girlfriend_ with sincerity. 

He feels that the very actuality of the word recreates him in the eyes of both those he knows, and strangers.  He is no longer William Darcy, lone wolf.  He can present himself as William Darcy, man with girlfriend.  William Darcy, man who is capable of giving and receiving love.  William Darcy, no longer doomed to a solitary, pitiable existence.

He tosses the term out whenever he sees an opening.  Perhaps he says it too often in the beginning, but his heart is bursting with love and pride, and he cannot help himself.

Never one for idle chit-chat, he finds that he is now more drawn into casual conversations.  He realizes that his life is actually more interesting since Lizzie has become a part of it.  Where once he struggled to speak about topics outside of his profession, he discovers that small talk flows more freely nowadays. 

 

 

The first time it happens, he is surprised at its potency.  He is in a meeting with a potential investor, who grumbles something in passing about inheriting his company despite being “the dreaded middle child.”

If he had thought about it, William never would have uttered the words, but they jumped out before he could catch them, “My girlfriend is a middle child, also.”

The dour man across the table stared blankly, but before the flush hit William’s cheeks, the man laughed, slapped the table, and launched into a tirade about the pros and cons of being at the middle of a pack of siblings.  Discussion becomes lighter, smoother, less forced, and Pemberley Digital gains a new investor.

 

 

After that, the word crops up often.  Not necessarily with any subversive intent, but because Lizzie is always at the forefront of William’s mind, and it is natural to drop her into dialogues.

“I _have_ been to Paris, but my girlfriend, Lizzie, has not.”

“My girlfriend favors white wine, but I have always preferred reds.”

“My girlfriend’s mother is rather eclectic, but is generally charismatic and affectionate.”

“I think that my girlfriend would love this restaurant.  I will have to bring her here if we travel to Chicago together.”

 

 

William Darcy loves saying the word _girlfriend_.  Until one day, suddenly, he doesn’t.

He is in New York, wrapping up a meeting.  Lunch plans are being made, and someone makes a joke about buying hot dogs from the vendor parked on the street below.

William wrinkles his face in disgust.  “My girlfriend is always trying to persuade me to eat street food, but I admit that I am wary of most food carts and trucks.”

The statement earns a smattering of chuckles, but something about it feels wrong.  As _girlfriend_ leaves his mouth, it deposits a sour, unpleasant taste against his palate, rather than the sweetness and bloom that he typically feels when he mentions Lizzie.

 

 

He pushes the sensation aside, only revisits it when he is alone in his room at Bing’s townhouse that evening.  Lizzie had called on Domino, and he felt all his normal joy and excited contentment during their call.  There was no problem between them, he reassured himself.  No, he was certain: Lizzie loves him.  And he loves her.  _His girlfriend_. 

The acrid tang wells up in his mouth again.  He stands up to get a glass of water, when it hits him.  It is not Lizzie herself that is unappetizing; it is the label that he has given to her.   

 

 

 _Girlfriend_ felt too small, like a favorite t-shirt that had been shrunk in the dryer.   

 

 

He sits down again, and wonders how Lizzie feels when the word boyfriend rolls off her tongue.  He wonders what flavor it leaves behind.

 

 

He tries it out, whispers, “My wife, Lizzie,” and the word shocks him as if he had shouted it.  It shocks him, but it tastes sweet.  It tastes like the hollow at the base of Lizzie’s neck.  It tastes like fresh strawberries and champagne and deep, rich, gratifying chocolate cake.  He likes the lingering feel of it on his lips. 

 

 

He lays back on his bed and repeats it.  “My wife, Lizzie.”  This time, there’s no shock.  It tastes delicious, and he wants more.


End file.
